


Orchids

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dry Humping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight Lubak's tenuous relationship with Elim Garak. (Set in <i>A Stitch in Time</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bamarren Showers

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I want to make this a drabble collection, but we’ll see. Because when I read [A Stitch in Time](http://startrekreviews.tumblr.com/post/102239204764/ds9-novel-27-a-stitch-in-time) by Andrew Robinson I just got all the Garak feels and I kept waiting for him and Pythas to fuck and spoiler they didn’t so hopefully I’ll get to that instead.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The water’s hotter at night, when everyone’s gone to bed and there’s no one to share it with. The two other stalls are empty, and it’s been several hours since the last time any Lubaks used it. Pythas waits half to let it store up, and half because it’s easier without interruptions. Better. Three and Five talk too much and One is supremely grating to be around. Nine looks at him strangely—a definite product of having the genders separated. Pythas gets the feeling Nine wouldn’t give him the time of day otherwise, but because their entire lives are now so stiflingly male and Pythas is smaller and lither and delicate, he gets all the pent up looks. It’s safer to shower when he’s alone. 

Ten’s still out there. When the door opens, Pythas already knows from the footsteps that it’s him and doesn’t bother looking over. If Pythas has to bathe with others, he’d prefer Ten. Ten is different from them, from most, if not in the same way Pythas is. 

Ten quietly shuts the door behind himself and shuffles into the room. Pythas doesn’t ask what happened—how he managed to survive so long in the wilderness yet again—because if Ten’s smart, he won’t say. Ten seems smart. He takes the stall next to Pythas—one small incongruity—and starts to strip out of his uniform. Pythas doesn’t have to look away because he was never looking in the first place, but he can see all of Ten’s outline in his peripherals. Ten’s bigger than him—they all are—but not by much. Average. Fit. He folds his clothes and tosses them onto the bench, then switches on the tap. He’s breathing heavy and his face is more alight than he’d probably care to know; he must get a rush out of being _special._

No one manages the wilderness like Ten. Pythas keeps meaning to follow Ten the next time they’re assigned out there together, but he never manages to find Ten himself. Impressive. The water runs down over Ten’s face, and Ten closes his eyes, soaking in the cloying steam that billows out around the edges. Pythas can feel the miniscule change in temperature from his own tap but doesn’t say anything. He has a reputation for silence, and that’s part of his power. 

Ten isn’t so quiet. Maybe he thinks he is, but as he starts to rub the water in over his grey skin, his lips make a sigh of relief. It’s good to be home, to be clean again, to revel in the sense of victory. That’s all they ever strive for. Out the corner of his eye, Pythas watches the little rivulets slither down the maze of Ten’s ridges, over the top of his chest, down his pecs, into the little indent between them. His open palms are spreading the water around, smoothing it down his hard stomach, while Pythas is just rigid and unmoving. Ten moves with a grace no one their age should be able to manage, and in some moments, it’s awe-inspiring. 

He’s beautiful, too. His silk hair flattens with the weight of the water, the curve of his spine arching forward as he washes off his thighs, the grooves around his hips filling with shallow pools. He knows he’s talented and graceful, but does he know how alluring he is? How handsome? Pythas wonders, not for the first time, what his real name is, where he comes from, and what it would be like if they could be friends, if being more than closed-off acquaintances would get them anywhere in life. Having attachments is dangerous, but so is just being Cardassian. 

And Pythas gets so _tired_ of being lonely, even if withdrawing into himself is the only way he’s ever known. He watches Ten pick the dirt out from under his fingernails and turns, just slightly, over. 

The movement sets Ten off. He’s alert in a heartbeat, hands dropping, spine straight, and suddenly he’s looking at Pythas with such ferocity that Pythas knows the wilderness hasn’t yet warn off. Pit training always comes in at unexpected movements. Pythas just looks at Ten until Ten slowly relaxes again, staring at him back. Ten’s eyes aren’t yet as steeled over as his other skills should warrant; Pythas can see the confusion beneath them. 

But he asks first, “Do you want something, Eight?” And Pythas has to struggle not to show on his face what the designation does to him—he wants them beyond that. 

He wants more than he should, more than he cares to admit, but he’s vigilant and isn’t going to be an Eight forever. Ten will probably reach One, and Pythas will be his Two. They’re the strongest in their unit and they both know it. He waits for Ten to settle, to relax more and ease into the company, before he says anything. Their eyes stay locked on one another and Pythas can feel an understanding. They’re communicating, in a way. 

Pythas finally asks, “Do you ever want... companionship?”

He doesn’t normally stumble, but it was difficult to word. And he’s always short and careful with his words. Ten just _stares_ at him, confusion ebbing in and out and warring with other things. Pythas thinks he can see the burn of what he wants, and he inclines his head a fraction to encourage it, then watches it flare to life. 

He knew he wasn’t imaging this spark. It’s still reassuring when Ten opens his mouth, says nothing, and reaches forward instead. 

His wet fingers land on Pythas’ shoulder. Pythas lets himself shiver. Ten’s hand slowly, tentatively, climbs his ridges, little indent by indent, the soft pads of Ten’s fingertips almost unbearably gentle and warm. Once Ten reaches Pythas’ face, he stops to stroke lightly under Pythas’ chin, petting him and musing. 

It was already more than Pythas needed. He leans in, tilts his head, suspended in the space between their two showers. Ten reaches back, this time without hesitation, and they’re kissing.

Just like that. It’s not Pythas’ first, but it’s the first one he’s wanted. He can tell by the slight tremor in Ten’s body that Ten’s no more experienced, but instinct fills in so easily. Pythas presses his lips against Ten’s, tilts more so he can press harder, so their noses won’t grind into one another, and he lifts a hand to touch Ten’s hip. Ten doesn’t stop him. He strokes Ten’s wet skin and smoothes over around Ten’s back, wants to go lower but doesn’t, not just yet, and Ten holds the back of his head in.

Pythas runs his tongue along Ten’s lips, and Ten opens up for him, and then they’re _really_ kissing, and it’s wet and easy and gut-wrenching; suddenly Pythas is pushing everything forward. He surges up against Ten, grinds their whole bodies together, and Ten takes hold of his forearms and spins him. Pythas is a master of the Pit and could break free but doesn’t; he doesn’t want to. He lets Ten slam him against the wall and pin him there, while the water keeps streaming over Ten’s shoulders. 

Ten’s tongue pushes into Pythas mouth, and Pythas kisses him back just as hard, hands now running everywhere to feel every little ridge and scale and hair. Suddenly he doesn’t know how he made it this far in Bamarren without giving in, without taking _some_ pleasure in something. He knew Ten would be the one to give it to him. He can tell from Ten’s body and movements and shaking that Ten is just as lost and overwhelmed, and it helps to know they’re both young and trying and not quite there yet. 

But when Ten pulls away, both of them panting for air, he hisses, “We can’t do this here.” It looks like it took tremendous effort to say it, but Pythas knows. He doesn’t say anything. Ten steps away and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Maybe some other time, somehow. But not when eight others could walk in and ruin the one tenable connection either of them has, and Pythas knows they’re always being watched. 

Sometimes he questions how much it’s worth it to care. It’d be easier just to leave, but that’s never really been an option. 

Ten shakes his head and steps back under his shower. But when he looks at Pythas, it’s fierce, and Pythas knows this won’t be forgotten. He repositions under his own shower and washes all the evidence away. 

Eventually, Ten mutters, “Elim,” and Pythas looks over, not understanding.

“Elim Garak. My name.” He looks at Pythas expectantly, challengingly, and Pythas gives no reaction, even though Pythas will cherish that and never tell a soul. 

“Pythas Lok.” 

Ten—Elim—inclines his head. They’ve reached the first step of their understanding: mutual vulnerability.

This is a weakness. Pythas can’t take it back. He looks straight ahead for the rest of his shower and tries not to dwell too much on all the things about Elim that he finds attractive. He tells himself that when he leaves Bamarren in another several years, he won’t look Elim up and learn everything he can. Maybe he won’t have to, because he will have learned more on his own by then. 

He can tell by every little distracted movement of Elim’s body that Elim wants to kiss him again.

It’s a start. Pythas finally turns off his shower and heads off without a word.


	2. Bamarren Beds

Somewhere in a dream state, Pythas is drifting through memories of home. It won’t be home when he’s done here, not anymore, but some nights it seems so free relative to Bamarren, and Pythas vaguely misses having the only bed in the room. He can hear Four snoring loudly: a thin link to reality that keeps him aware. He needs sleep to function, yes, but he’ll manage on as little as possible. 

Bedsprings groan—someone rolling over. Pythas stills his breathing just the same, concentrating. It isn’t likely to be a threat, not here, but it’s good practice. He hears something hit the floor, light and trying to be lighter. Another. Feet? The bed creaks again, and there are footsteps, minimized so well that if Pythas weren’t straining specifically to sense them, he wouldn’t hear them at all. 

The figure’s getting closer, but Pythas already knows who it is. No one else can sneak like that so silently. For a moment, he wants to hiss that Ten is a fool—they’ll never get away with it. But he doesn’t dare. They’ll have to do this all in absolute quiet. 

A hand gropes through the darkness for the edge of Pythas’ blanket, and Pythas lifts it himself to signal he’s awake. He shuffles back on that side, giving Elim room to climb in with him. Elim slinks onto the bed like a slithering regnar, nestles under the covers and right up against Pythas’ body; the beds are too narrow for anything else. Pythas can feel every part of him, from his bare feet to his nightclothes to the warmth of his hands. Elim runs one along Pythas’ shoulder like he can’t believe what’s happening, even though he’s the one that started it. 

Pythas wraps a hand around Elim’s waist and pulls him closer, so tightly together that Elim’s breath hitches. It’s difficult to breathe. They both pause to master it again, and Pythas has them centered on the mattress. It would probably be smarter to have one of them on top: use vertical space instead. But this is no place for a Pit brawl, and they stay as they are, aligned and Elim just a fraction taller, just a fraction bigger, his knee pressing between Pythas’ legs. Pythas shifts one leg over Elim’s hip and wraps both his arms around Elim’s back, clutching at his shoulder blades. Elim’s presence is so subdued that Pythas can barely feel this happening, and it’s both impressive and frustrating. Somehow, Elim’s skills entice him. If Pythas becomes One, Elim will be an excellent Two. If Elim becomes One, Pythas will serve just as happily. 

Elim tilts his head and brings their lips together; Pythas can taste his breath coming. Elim’s lips are stale, a little chapped, but pleasant, _so good_. Pythas has dreamed of this but never thought of putting it to action. Didn’t dare. The physicality of it is overwhelming. In lieu of knowing what to do, Elim runs his lips along the side of Pythas’ face, over along the ridges of his cheek, up to his ear. Pythas is nearly trembling and has to fight to be still. He can feel all of Elim’s reservations and fears, and he tries not to feed them with his own. He burrows his face into Elim’s warm cheek and runs his palms flat over Elim’s spine, feeling through the fabric. It makes Elim arch into him, and Pythas experiments with putting pressure on different places, bending Elim into different shapes, while Elim mouths along his face and covers him in warm breath. Pythas feels more alive than he ever has in this stately, stoic place. He rolls his hips into Elim’s with a slow, deep rhythm, grinding all of them together. 

His crotch is stirring. He can feel all the blood in his body rushing down to fill out his shaft, and it leaves his head dizzy. Which is dangerous. He goes rigid for half a second while he listens past Elim’s breathing, but nothing else in the room has moved. It’s too dark to see a thing. Elim waits for his assessment. 

Then Elim rolls them over suddenly, twisting in the blankets and landing atop Pythas. He drags his whole body along Pythas, and Pythas bites back his hiss, fighting the urge to push Elim back and wrestle for dominance. Not here. Elim returns to exploring his face, and he lets his hands roam all over every part of Elim. Elim’s leg is still between his, and when Elim grinds into him again, he can feel the slight bulge forming in Elim’s pants. It’s oddly reassuring. Proof of their mutual failure. Pythas drags his clothed cock along the outline of Elim’s and wonders for the millionth time what it would be like to feel Elim’s body properly, without all the barriers littering their lives. 

He wonders if he could ever feel Elim _inside him_ without the fear of another waking and catching them. Or feel Elim’s insides the same way around. He closes his eyes and gets lost in the daydream for half a second, then returns to the world of the waking to turn his face against Elim’s. He nips his way along Elim’s face until their lips are sealed again: the best way to cover up the sound of their breathing. They have to be careful with their hips so the bed doesn’t groan. He can feel Elim moaning into his mouth once, and he swallows it down to keep it safe. 

Elim’s delicious. Pythas kisses him and devours him and humps in that slow, steady rhythm of absolute silence. His cock fills to its full length, completely unsheathed, hard and pulsing against Elim’s, and their ridges catch on one another as they move, and once, Pythas grabs Elim’s face in both hands, turns it down and licks over the circular indent of his forehead, which makes Elim shiver in his arms and hiss. He could drown in this. He could stay like this forever, even with the fear and the caution. It’s worth it. He even thinks that if he is caught, if he’s expelled tomorrow, it will still have been worth it, because nothing in his grey future looks as colourful as this moment. 

Then Elim is mouthing along his neck and biting into his right ridge. Pythas understands. He fists his fingers in Elim’s hair and turns his face into the pillow, burying his mouth. His hips still and he spills into his pants, unable to stop the tiny, slick squelching noise of liquid bubbling into fabric. He can smell Elim’s release following, and for a moment, he wants to throw everything away and rip their clothes off to mix properly, but he _knows_ there can’t be evidence. Finger marks and teeth marks and even spit can come from the Pit, but this can’t. They’ll have to claim youthful dreams like their roommates and avoid each other’s eyes. 

When Elim’s finished, he’s heavier than before. He slumps against Pythas, lost for that fraction of a second: a man instead of a secret agent, a shadow, a creeping regnar. He’s a man that found his mutual pleasure in Pythas’ arms, and Pythas holds onto him, feeling bizarrely safe for how unwise this is. 

Elim kisses the side of his jaw. Pythas turns his head to press his lips to Elim’s ear, wanting to say something, but he can’t think of the right words so settles for nothing. He thinks Elim can still understand. 

Elim detangles from him. It leaves Pythas empty, hollow, but Pythas retracts just as much, settling down the blankets after Elim’s gone like a single wrinkle will wash them in searchlights. He listens carefully to the hush of Elim’s feet for the entire journey, until Elim’s safely back in his bunk. 

And Pythas is alone again, at least in body.


	3. Tain’s Old Office

There’s a sanctity in it for Elim, though Pythas has no idea what it is or where it comes from. All he knows is the flicker of amusement in Elim’s eyes, the sadness and the irony and the little curve upwards of lips. Pythas has learned long ago to differentiate between the smiles Elim means and the smiles Elim uses to unnerve or get ahead. He isn’t angry that Pythas took this office, this job, this place as Enabran Tain’s successor that Elim seemed to have every right to. The second time they were in this little office, Elim swept him aside and said, _“I’m glad it was you.”_

It still feels strange sometimes. Elim shifts along the couch, one leg crossing over the other, feet up on the end table. His head lies in Pythas’ lap, arms up to hold the datapad streaming yet another lengthy piece of classic Cardassian literature. Elim takes too much stock in them, Pythas thinks, when he finds them often dull and monotonous himself, but they both study those stories all the same. He has handwritten notes in his own hand—the one that isn’t threading gently through Elim’s hair—because notes are easier to destroy this way. The next assignment he manages to get Elim will have to be a more careful one. Elim _not_ getting this job can only mean one thing: he’s failed. Fallen out of favour. How, Pythas doesn’t know, and he won’t ask. Sentimentality, he thinks, but it would ruin the safety of their relationship to try and know one another’s secrets. They’ve only made it so far because they’re cautious and clever and respect the always-there boundaries of a Cardassian enslaved to the state. Still, Pythas doesn’t want Elim gone too long. 

Elim snorts—a rare reaction to fictitious events—and Pythas doesn’t ask. He keeps his eyes trained on his notes, though all of his attention is on Elim’s face, Elim’s hands, Elim’s body draped along his furniture. Elim’s hair is impossibly soft in Pythas’ fingers, and the more Pythas strokes it back, the more he wonders why they bother with all these charades. It’d be easier to steal a transport and run far away—Vulcan or Andor or some other menial, far away world where they can just do _this_ all day. Or maybe it’s just the droning Vulcan chants drifting out of his computer: different, ambient music taking him to another plane. Pythas likes to be different where he can. When he’s alone. But Elim loves Cardassia, and Pythas knows he’d never leave.

Elim must know he’s being watched, but he’s good and pretends to just keep reading. Pythas watches him while the minutes tick away and the deep Vulcan voices lull them half to sleep, and the light turns grey around the blinds. Pythas wonders more than once if Elim’s run out of words and is just now pretending, but it would spoil their mirage to ever ask. 

Eventually, the weight of Elim atop him and the lack of food and the lilting music becomes too much, and Pythas crumples his paper, tossing it to his desk to be incinerated. Elim shows no reaction, even though Pythas’ hand has stilled in his hair. They’re getting older, the years sinking creases around their bones, but Elim’s still as beautiful right now as he was when he first picked Pythas to wander the halls of Bamarren with him. Pythas smoothes his palm back over Elim’s forehead and bends down to run his tongue along the spoon that Bajorans so like to tease. Elim’s nose wrinkles against his cheek, but Pythas lingers with the taste of his lover. He thinks Elim might have others, but Pythas can’t bring himself to bare anyone else. He’ll never be open for anyone else. 

Elim’s databad lowers, and his hand reaches up to stroke over Pythas’ ridges. It makes Pythas shiver in pleasure and trail more kisses along Elim’s face, unwilling to leave. 

Pythas murmurs, a quiet thing lost in the droning music, even though he’s made sure to soundproof the office, “We should go home.”

“I want you over the desk.” Elim’s voice is blunt, even. Pythas straightens back up so Elim can see his smile, so he can play with Elim’s ridges while Elim lazes in his lap and grins fondly back at him. Pythas daydreams about having Elim bent over every nook and cranny of his office all the time, but they’re too old to play so much. His eyes skim over the sparse furniture, the kotra board in the corner atop a cabinet. 

“If you beat me at kotra,” Pythas decides. Elim’s amusement doesn’t fade; he never seems to mind earning it. 

He pushes up onto his elbows, and Pythas instantly misses his weight, his heat, his imprint along Pythas’ thighs, but it’s worth it to watch him gingerly stretch and stroll across the room to take the game in his hands. Pythas cleans off the table, preparing for another all-nighter that Tain would die to know.


End file.
